


she loos'd the chains and down she lay

by clutzycricket



Series: Clock Don't Stop [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Postpartum Depression, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 07:02:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6694225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clutzycricket/pseuds/clutzycricket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Lysa Tully deals with her life crashing down around her, and learning the rebuilding process isn't a linear affair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	she loos'd the chains and down she lay

Lysa Tully wasn’t Cat, who knew everything and took over the house when Mama died, but she knew enough. She knew that different magical houses tended to different things, and had reputations of their own. Arryns were good for wind magic, and Papa’s business friend Jon Arryn had the distant, cool air of that she associated with air magic, high up and not staying with anything. Baratheons were all storm magic, booming laughter and raging thunder.

 

Tullys, she knew, were water mages. Not like the Martells could be, or the other Rhoynish mages, but the ponds and creeks where a Tully-blood lived were always clean and full of life, and a Tully never drowned.

 

But Mama had been a Whent, and the Whents had been the Lothstons, before the River had grown angry and taken the Last Lothston’s life and their niece had taken the haunted mess that was Harrenhal House. Lysa had been too young when her mother had died to know the rumors about the Whents, rumors that grew stronger when Uncle Victor died in a car crash with his sons.

 

Now Lysa was fifteen, and she was growing aware of those rumors- Cat was a perfect Tully lady, smoothing dew out of her way and creating mist for Edmure to play in, all while preparing for her wedding to Ned Stark.

 

(Dad originally wanted her for Brandon Stark, who had a personality as strong as a snowstorm, but it was whispered that Brandon Stark had pissed off Aerys Targaryen, and the fire that killed Brandon and his father had been his fault. Lysa thought quiet, serious, dull Ned would be better for Cat.)

 

The rumors were loudest when people looked at her, and whispered about how much she was like her mother, the alarmed look on her father’s eyes when her magic flared up in a way that wasn’t very Tully-like.

 

Ghosts liked the Whents of Harrenhal,were drawn to them, a fact that a young and infatuated Hoster Tully had overlooked when he rushed into marrying Minisa Whent. Their magic came from blood and the sight of things others couldn’t see.

 

It was all the stuff of rumors and melodrama, Cat had sniffed when one particularly cruel story reached their ears. And if the girl’s backpack had been completely drenched, somehow, well, she must have been _careless_.

.

 

Petyr, though… he told her she was special. Oh, looking back with an adult’s eyes, after everything, she could parse together the cracks and the lies, but she had been fifteen, and her best and only real friend told her she was special, that her magic was something wonderful, not something to be frightened of.

 

So when he suggested they do a ritual, something they had found in her father’s library, gathering dust that Petyr had ever so carefully taken the security measures off of, something that could give them their heart’s desire…

 

Lysa had never been able to say no to Petyr, even when it when it went terribly wrong. And of course it went wrong- they had no idea what they were doing, really.

 

And when she woke up the next morning, sticky and sore and remembering the fact that, losing his precious control, he had said _Cat_ ’s name, her perfect sister’s name instead of her name, that he forgot who was there for, with him, who was there every time he had a plan, who he had called special…

 

She gathered her clothing, tied up her snarled mess of hair, and snuck upstairs to take a shower. Everything had happened so fast, had gotten so out of control, he might think it some sort of dream, she told herself.

 

She kept pretending nothing happened as long as she could, until she couldn’t hide being sick and sore and everything else.

 

Her father lost his temper, swore that no daughter of his would be carrying some magpie hedgewizard’s bastard, and the voices at the edge of her hearing were repeating a litany of herbs and songs.

 

It was like watching a movie, part of her thought later, from very far away, with the rest of her wailing that this couldn’t be happening, as she was dragged to her room to think about what she’d done.

 

She heard, through her fog, words like “ungovernable”, “how to find someone to take her now”, and others.

 

Which was how Lysa Tully ended up running away from home, not quite sixteen and three months pregnant.

 

~

 

Later, she won’t talk about the months wandering the streets, wondering if she made the right choice.

 

She won’t talk about being cold, and sick, and remembering that she threw everything away for something so stupid, except then she remembers the look on her father’s face, and the words he threw at her, like she wasn’t a person in her own right.

 

Like she was just a series of mistakes.

And, one hand going to a sweatshirt-covered belly, she thought that she made the right choice, if she can just figure out how to land on her feet.

 

She managed to get a job at a shop  by the time she’s six months along- the look on Jeyne Swann’s face made her think that she did it out of pity, but Lysa can smile prettily, and she makes hand-lettered signs each day announcing new crafts, and knitting is something she learned to do from Cat, and from Aunt Shella. She teaches the younger children, a bit nervously, but she needs the practice, and she really does need the money.

 

She was finishing up one of those lessons when her Aunt Shella came into the shop, her dark red hair streaked heavily with grey and an air of weariness settled into her bones.

 

Lysa remembered that her cousin Sarya had married the Creepy Frey a few weeks before she had run away, and Cousin Wyn had married one of the other ones- Dan Frey was a complete

, and she suspected that the Frey money and Wyn being the heiress to Harrenhal and the Whent holdings after sickly Sarya had more to do with it than anything else. Aunt Shella must hate being left in the house, all by herself.

 

Lysa still looked for the back door to the shop.

 

“Don’t worry, I’m not sending you to your idiot of a father,” Aunt Shella said, fondly. “Minisa always got that look, when she was about to get in trouble.”

 

“So what are you doing?” Lysa asked, fighting the urge to bite her nails. Cat had always painted them a riot of colors to discourage her, but she hadn’t been able to keep up the polish, lately. (And without her sister…)

 

“I was thinking, that as you are my niece, and you are currently living in a shelter, and my home is quite big enough for both of us to live without running into each other for weeks on end… would you like to stay with me?” Her aunt asked, something vulnerable in her face.

 

Lysa chewed on a nail, trying to think it through. Harrenhal was outside of town, true, she hadn’t run very far, and she’d need to cut back her hours soon, Jeyne said.

 

“What if my dad finds out?” She asked.

 

“Oh, I suspect Oswell will have words with him, then,” Aunt Shella smiled, a shade to brightly.

 

Lysa nodded. “Okay, then.”

 

~

 

Danelle had been born in a haze of pain and fear, with Lysa briefly swearing she heard her father shouting.

 

“Hmm, they did give you the good drugs,” Uncle Oswell said, dark eyes glittering, when she asked later.

 

She chose not to fight on it, too tired and sore to question anything.

 

She was let out of the hospital, though, without a noticeable improvement to her mood, feeling tired and snappish, as if walking about covered in weights. Everything was wrong, from how she felt to the way Danelle cried. (And why had she chosen Danelle, of all names? Was she mad?)

 

Harrenhal was gloomier than ever, the silver-chill presence of its ghosts not chased away by fire or the sage perfume her aunt made, causing Lysa to hide in her room when she could.

 

Her aunt worried, fussing and clucking over her until Lysa couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand any of it anymore.

 

Shella never said if it was the ghosts of Danelle’s crying that drove her to Lysa’s room, to the knife that sliced messily up her niece’s wrists and the blood staining the bedsheets.

 

~

 

Danelle was almost four, and Lysa was almost… she wasn’t going to say normal. She’d never be normal, precisely, and her friends- her real friends, part of her, the sharp, razors-and-wrath part, said- would be more likely to smile and say that normal wasn’t real.

 

So when Aunt Shella asked Lysa to come with her to some business dinner she said would be useful, Lysa could bite back her questions about being an embarrassment, and merely silently hope that her father wouldn’t be nearby.

 

She still played the wallflower, humming to the music being played, wondering if the dress she’d ended up putting on was as flattering as Uncle said it was. (She was aware that she hadn’t shed all of her baby weight, and most likely never would. She didn’t need the imperious looks from some of the other guests.)

 

“Do you mind if I sit here?” came a soft, mournful voice, and Lysa turned to say, well, yes, she

mind- at least she wanted to mind- and found herself face to face with a man who looked like he stepped out of a fantasy painting, with silver-steel hair and indigo eyes.

 

“Er…” Lysa raised her eyebrows, taking in his very nice suit and looking at hers, which was an altered thrift shop dress she’d chosen mostly for the boning and had needed the skirt pinned up a bit. “You’re sure? I’m not exactly the life of the party.”

 

“Neither am I,” he sighed. “My daughter had physio today, it was exhausting.” There was a faint challenge in his voice. “Six year olds weren’t meant for regimented exercise.”

 

Lysa blinked. “No… I can’t imagine they are. My little girl is three, and the thought makes me want to run for the hills.”

 

“Her brothers try to get involved, which makes it worse,” he said, and she noticed the bags around his eyes.

 

It was easy to talk to him, strangely, focusing on their children and hobbies- music for him, knitting and art for her- and trying to avoid the crowds.

 

~

 

A snappish, pissy part of Lysa thought that her current situation could cheerfully be called “The Wedding Carol”, complete with the Voices of Reason, Worry, and Doubt.

 

Reason was Aunt Shella, more grey than red in her hair, carefully dressed in somber lavender, for the family she still mourned and for Cousin Sarya, who had died six months ago, shortly after the original engagement announcement.

 

“You don’t have to go through this if you don’t want to,” her aunt said, dabbing a sage-and-lemon balm oil behind her ears. She’d laughed a bit ruefully and said it was a tradition going back to when the Lothstons had held Harrenhal, one to keep spirits away. “You’ll always have a place with me, you know. You are far more Whent than Tully, and with everything…” Her eyes were shiny with tears. “Well, I suppose I was going to wait until after the ceremony, but I made my will, and everything will be left to Danelle and the little bean.”

 

“A little knife,” Lysa had said, remembering Rhaegar’s eldest and her too-knowing eyes. The little girl had been smiling when she said it, though. “And you shouldn’t have.”

 

“Ah, well, if I didn’t, your cousin and her lout of a husband would have gotten it,” Shella sighed. “I never wanted to let Sarya marry Walder Frey, but it was too late for me to stop them, that old necromancer. And Wyn… my youngest sister made no sense to me, and her child even less.”

 

“I’m not leaving you behind,” Lysa found herself saying. With Aunt’s smile, she knew it was the right thing to say.

 

Worry was Cat, who had slowly started to see her, after marrying Ned Stark and having a child a few months younger than Danelle. She and Uncle Bryn had come to the wedding, but Uncle had whispered that Father refused to allow Edmure to come, and he needed Father’s money for Uni. He’d written her a letter, sketches on the side like when he was a boy.

 

“Will he make you happy?” Cat asked, a furrow in her brow. Still playing the mother, even after having their own children. “I don’t mean to be rude…”

 

“We’ve been dancing around this practically since we met,” Lysa smiled, feeling oddly fond. Perhaps it was Aegon and Dani playing with a ball the afternoon previously, or helping Jon with some particularly tricky bit of his book. It formed a sort of happiness cocoon.

 

“I wonder if his previous wives felt the same,” Cat mused.

 

“Be quiet,” Lysa said, rolling her eyes to take away the sting. Said wives would not be here, and Rhaella and Aunt Shella would be watching the children, at least.

 

Doubt had been the ghosts, before Aunt Shella’s trick took effect, her mother and Sarya lingering in the shadows, a long haired, cobwebby figure trying to be a Hollywood Ghost.

 

Lysa was gasping at that lunge, though, the long nails and the look of pure _hate_  on his face… she wanted a knife, for a stronger binding like the slow ones that Shella and Oswell did over the parts of home that they lived in.

 

No, no, I’ll be fine, she said, focusing on the expression of what she was nearly certain was Aerys Targaryen’s ghost as he bounced off the protections Aunt Shella put on her.

 

I can do this, she told herself. There was a line from a book she had adored, before everything, that came to mind.

 

She had to believe that there was more than that.

 

If her grin was a bit too sharp, well, Cat knew about her powers, and she merely tried to stroke Lysa’s hair, which thankfully didn’t have Cat’s sheer volume of curls, and let her little sister lean on her.

 

~

 

Lysa was looking at Senya with nervousness.

 

“Step Lysa,” Rhaenys said, carefully pronouncing the nickname, which made Lysa giggle helplessly when she first heard it, but just made her tired. “Senya’s happy.”

 

“Did you see it, Rhae?” she was too tired to be sharp, at least.

 

“Yes,” she said, too-old eyes looking up at her. Lysa wondered if it was the Sight or the lingering pain from the cup of poison meant for Rhaegar, that they hadn’t been able to draw out properly.

 

Outdone in the grace department by a seven year old, Lysa thought bitterly.

 

“Be busy,” Rhaenys said.

 

“ _What_?” Oh, she thought, looking at the flinch. Fuck.

 

“It’s what Uncle Doran says to do,” she said, sinking into her chair. It had suns and snakes down the armrests this week, and her cousins had done something with chalk. “It helps not focus on the pain. It’s real hard, but he says it is better than the…” She scowled. “Something.”

 

“Alternative, sweetie,” Lysa mused. “But… I can’t leave.”

 

“Da leaves,” Aegon said, looking up. “He leaves a lot.”

 

“Because he works,” Lysa said weakly. Rhaegar was good about coming home on time, though. She suspected that her mother-in-law had given him a kick in the balls before the wedding, given the slightly stunned expression he’d had after speaking with Rhaella before the rehearsal dinner. “But you know…” She gave a weak smile. “I think I can do something, still.”

 

Rhaegar was pleased but slightly surprised when Lysa declared she was going to university, the older children a chorus of joy.

 

“Going stir-crazy?” he asked, indigo eyes flicking to her wrists.

 

“Not as bad,” Lysa said, trying to keep her head straight. “Aunt would have said something. It might be not being in Harrenhal? And being on the medication. But focusing on the children isn’t good for me.”

 

“Mmm,” he said.

 

There was a bundle of pamphlets left on the kitchen table when he got home from the university the next day.

 

 _Never let it said that Rhaegar Targaryen can’t take a hint when he_ ** _wants_** _to_ , Lysa mused, something like mischief in her expression.  _He just occasionally needs an anvil to hammer it in._

She settled down to look at them, hearing what looked like a raucous game of Piggy in the Middle going on upstairs between Jon, Aegon, and Dani. Rhae was reading fairy tales to Senya, and dinner would be ready soon.

 

She picked up one, with a smudgy thumbprint on it. “Oh, dear, someone needs new pens,” she sighed. “I swear, the man needs a keeper.”

 

Wait, that was her. She smiled, and flipped it open, wondering what she would do next.

  
  
  



End file.
